Tempting the Earl

by Rachael Miles

  “I see that,” Fields agreed, tentatively, then grew more comfortable when no one objected to a newcomer talking.

  “None of the other authors do either of those,” Jerome chimed in, given confidence by Fields’s experience.

  “Can we hypothesize that these four articles share one author?” Harrison asked, hopefully.

  “Yes.” “Yes.” “Yes.” The agreements circled the table.

  Harrison rolled the pile into a tube, then tied a string around it.

  “Prosperity Once More likes the word eleemosynary.” Nathan spread out three essays and pointed to the word in each one. “See here: ‘Are not our parish lists eleemosynary in nature?’ It’s in every article.”

  “Not only that”—Quinn straightened his pile until it had neat clean edges—“his arguments are always rooted in the effects of inflation or government regulation on the common laborer.”

  “What of the others?” Harrison prompted, knowing how long it would have taken him to discover the similarities. The scholars were a windfall, a confusing, unpredictable windfall.

  “Hannibal comes from the North.” Lark squinted at his page. “My friend John Brockett lent me his glossary of North Country words. Fascinating reading. Hannibal frequently reverts to North Country usage.”

  “Such as?” Harrison prompted.

  “Well, here.” Lark, nearsighted, held the essay close to his face. “He uses abstract as a verb with the meaning ‘to take away unlawfully.’”

  “Then, that leaves our Honest Gentleman. What do we know of him?” Harrison waited, anxious to hear what the scholars would notice.

  The room grew silent again, the scholars reading over a page, then passing it on.

  “They all appear to be by the same person,” Partlet said, but his voice was unconvincing.

  “Why?” Harrison waited. The men seemed far less confident than before.

  “Because they are unremarkable,” Partlet explained. “We would have to spend several hours to find any identifying features at all.”

  “We can say he’s a university man.” Quinn fluffed his cravat into a new arrangement.

  “Yes, and Cambridge rather than Oxford.” Jerome watched to see if any of the other scholars objected.

  “Why?” Harrison questioned.

  “His examples are scientific rather than religious or philosophical,” Jerome explained. “He is very practical in his application of logic, no sophistry and little theoretical speculation.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen. You have saved me hours of time. I know now how to proceed.” Harrison looked up to discover that the parson had escaped as well as Olivia.

  “Then, we are done.” Otley hit the bell with his mallet. “We will adjourn to the lodge for tea. I should tell our new colleagues that Mr. Stanley’s biscuits are not to be missed. Today we have a new shortbread with persimmons, taken from a handwritten manuscript he examined during his travels in Pennsylvania.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Your ladyship, your presence is required in the library.” Mrs. Pier’s lips pursed into a thin line.

  “Already? We left them only an hour ago.” Olivia set down her pen.

  “I’ll wait for you in the corridor, your ladyship.” Pier walked crisply, shutting the door behind her.

  “Oh, dear. Pier only reverts to rank when she’s reached her limits.” Olivia rose from behind her desk, and Noah, from his regular chair, rose as well. “Thank you for finding me. I was somewhat distressed.”

  “But understandably. You could not have imagined Walgrave would send a scholar with an interest in An Honest Gentleman. As for now, I’ll post these in the village.” He held up two letters, one for Lark’s supplies, the other for Roderick’s books.

  “I can’t imagine what mess the scholars have made in so little time.”

  Southbridge took his leave at the door. “If I may be of assistance, you know where to find me.”

  Nodding goodbye, Olivia turned her attention to Mrs. Pier.

  “According to Mr. Calder, all the bridles are missing from the barn.” The housekeeper’s face was a cloud of dismay.

  Olivia hurried down the stairs, grateful for the distraction. She was still reeling from the moment she’d realized that her new scholar MacHus was in fact her husband—well, not quite husband. And for him to return here with the purpose of unmasking An Honest Gentleman! If not for Noah’s steadying hand, Olivia feared she may have swooned for the first time in her life. It was still too overwhelming to think about. For now, she’d turn her mind to whatever disaster the scholars had managed to inflict on the library.

  She had learned early that the scholars would unthinkingly appropriate items from the household for their experiments. A pot Cook had liked for stews—when filled with rocks and suspended from a makeshift crane they’d built in the meadow—became a fine wrecking ball for testing a theory that Smithson, the engineer, had read in a recent article. But it wasn’t until she’d discovered the lot of them on the roof, preparing to launch Quinn, the astronomer, off the edge in a flying machine, that she had established some rules. After Quinn had dismounted and the machine had plummeted straight down to break into pieces on the roof of the porte cochere, the scholars had agreed to her edicts with only a minimum of grumbling.

  The primary rule: no harm to limb or library.

  Opening the library doors wide, she surveyed the room. The large central library table had been cleared of its books and papers. Unaware of her entrance, the scholars were huddled around a diagram laid out flat. Seven white heads were muttering, pointing, and disagreeing with varying degrees of civility, while two younger men were watching with a complicated mix of dismay and fascination.

  Occasionally she could make out bits of disconnected argument. But even so, she was not quite able to determine what they had planned.

  “No, I’m certain that position is right. See here. Below the main diagram, it says that ‘the center of gravity of a body suspended on one cord always lies beneath the center line of that cord.’” Quinn motioned toward the ceiling where the height of the room rose to two stories.

  Looking up, Olivia inwardly gasped. Somehow the scholars had tied ropes to the ancient chandelier above the central library table, then tied the other ends of the ropes to the wrought iron grating of the balcony. Between the ropes hung a system of weights, pulleys, and cylinders—all attached, she realized with bridles.

  She refused to let herself wonder how they had managed it. If she did, she’d never have a peaceful night’s sleep again. Suddenly, she imagined the ropes pulling the bolts of the walkway free and the scholars toppling to their deaths.

  What would happen to the lot of them when she was gone? Would Lark again forget to cover his magnifying glass and set the papers on his desk on fire with the afternoon sun? Would Martinbrook dismantle another fencerow in search of rocks moved by the ancient Britons? If the local magistrate arrested them again, who would bring them home? Would Harrison even wish to?

  She wiped unexpected tears from her eyes. She would miss each gray hair on their troublesome heads.

  Eavesdropping carefully on the scholars’ debate, Olivia examined the ropes and their cylinders, tracing their path across the ceiling.

  “Smithson might be the expert at building fortifications, but as an agriculturist, I can tell you: One must account for the difference in the material.” Martinbrook rubbed his hands through his coarse hair. “The sketch assumed a linen cloth, and we have only wool.”

  Olivia looked quickly to the window curtains. They were still in place.

  “The problem isn’t the materials; it’s these angles here. I believe the translation from the Italian isn’t accurate.” Nathan rubbed the top of his nose where his spectacles rested.

  “If you compare this version to Smithson’s original notes, you will see important variations in the design here and here.” Lark objected as loudly as his narrow voice would allow, but the louder, more assertive voices overshadowed him.

>   “If Smithson’s copy isn’t exact, then we have to interpret the data based on our own experiences.” Quinn fluffed the lace of his cravat. “We don’t know this design is da Vinci’s at all. Only Smithson believes it to be authentic.”

  Olivia approached the desk and silently looked between the shoulders of the scholars. The diagram was sketched, she realized with a bit of dismay, on her largest and most expensive drawing paper. It was held down flat at the corners by a variety of objects: a brick, a doorstop, a globe, and a shoe. She immediately looked at the scholars’ feet, but all were clad. She’d have to collect the shoe after the experiment; otherwise, later one of the scholars would be distressed to be missing a shoe, forgetting entirely that he’d sacrificed it to science.

  Olivia stepped in close to the group of scholars. Lark moved over to let her see the drawing better, then realizing who she was, looked up with rabbit eyes. She lifted her finger to silence him, but not before he’d elbowed Nathan in the ribs. She watched as each of the scholars realized she had joined them, surprise giving way to guilt, and guilt to apologetic resignation.

  Soon, only Smithson—his head bent over the drawing—remained unaware of her presence. “In Italy, I reviewed Leonardo da Vinci’s works extensively. Though the papers I copied from the Duke of Arundel’s library at Gresham College are unattributed, I’m certain they belong to da Vinci.” Smithson chewed on the end of his cheroot, kept empty because the taste of tobacco made him unwell.

  “But can the original drawing be trusted?” Olivia asked, as if she had been part of the scheme all along.

  “Oh, yes!” Smithson offered without raising his head. “As you see here, we are testing Leonardo’s theories related to balances and weights.”

  Lark, unable to manage his discomfort any longer, poked Smithson in the ribs. “Miss Olivia is here.”

  “Of course Miss Olivia is here, Quinn. We’ve just been discussing our little experiment. And besides . . .” Smithson’s voice trailed off as the consequences of Olivia’s presence registered. The stocky man grew silent, rolling his cheroot between his thumb and forefinger. Then realizing something, he grinned widely. “And besides, Miss Olivia only minds if we break something. This experiment will break nothing! See!”

  Smithson reached to his left and loosened the rope from the back of the chair, letting it swing free.

  Olivia watched with a fascinated dismay as the ropes loosened each in turn and the cylinders moved up and down their lengths, depending on the direction of the force. For a moment she almost felt as if she were watching an acrobat at the traveling fair. The heaviest weight finally let loose, and it began careening toward the large stained glass window that had been in the family for generations. She felt her stomach twist and her breath stop as the cylinder shifted to the bottom of the rope. Coupled with the knot on the end, it swung closer and closer to the window, gaining force and momentum as each weight set free. She couldn’t turn away. Like the others, she was trapped in the moment, watching the disaster unfold.

  Closer, closer, the weighted cylinder swung, then stopped. With near misses, and complicated movements, Smithson’s ropes and cylinders finally came to a rest less than an inch before the large stained glass window.

  “All right, then, gentlemen, I think that concludes today’s experiments.” Olivia tried to keep her voice level and calm, though her heart was still pounding against her ribs. “Professor Smithson, I assume we will hear your report on your findings at our Wednesday meeting.”

  “Ah, yes, Miss Olivia. Of course. I’ll begin it now.” The engineer grinned all the way to his chair, then turned back to the group. “Next week I would like to test da Vinci’s studies on curved mirrors.”

  “Oh, yes,” Partlet agreed, “I’d like to see what he says about monocles.”

  “Yes, we should gather all the mirrors from the abbey,” Martinbrook suggested, innocently. “Perhaps we can also examine how shallow curves create a faster fire.”

  “Yes.” “Yes.” “Yes.” The scholars bobbed their heads as if in a roll call.

  At the word fire, Olivia turned quickly. “Professor Martinbrook, please remember that we do not kindle fires in the library. And with the lack of rain, I would prefer no kindling of fires in the fields as well.”

  “Ah, yes, certainly, my dear. Excellent point.” Martinbrook nodded his agreement. “A fine display, Smithson. Let us know when we can be of use again.”

  The scholars drifted back to their desks, promising to dismantle the experiment before they retired for the evening.

  Olivia watched them, waiting as her heart returned to something of a normal rhythm. They were never easy, her scholars. But she who had never had a reliable father felt she had gained one, first in Sir Roderick and then in the Seven when they arrived. Even with their quirks and peccadillos, all had kind hearts, even at their most competitive. They had become an odd family, and she would mourn their loss. But not now: For now, we are still together.

  “I believe that’s mine.”

  She heard his voice as if from a long distance, its tones echoing in her bones. Harrison had found her, and she still hadn’t decided how to handle him. She wasn’t ready, not for this.

  “What is yours?” She waited for the obvious answer—everything—but he did not give it. But she would not give him the satisfaction of recognizing him—not when he had propositioned her only a week before.

  “The shoe.” He held up his foot, revealing a single white stocking with an obvious repair to the heel. The sewing was badly done, and for a moment she regretted that his housekeeper couldn’t darn a smooth sock.

  “Ah, yes.” She set the shoe on the table and began her escape.

  He rounded the table to speak low to her ear. “Might I speak with you in private? My three-minute allotment proved unsatisfactory.”

  She stepped back, dread settling in the pit of her stomach. “The regulations of the library allow only one presentation per week. If you wish for an exception, you should petition his lordship.” He caught her wrist as she turned to go.

  “You know who I am. I saw your eyes widen with recognition.”

  “How could I not recognize you, Mr. MacHus? We met not two hours ago. But our acquaintance is not long enough for the liberties you take. Please release my hand.”

  He let her hand drop. Confusion and disbelief crossed his face, and Olivia felt a moment of triumph. How dare he assume she would know him? He had not recognized her at the theater.

  “Excuse me, your ladyship.” He struggled for words. “I must speak to you on a matter of great importance, but this”—he gestured to the library and the other scholars all bent over their work—“is not the place.”

  She would not let him off so easily. “Matters of great concern should be directed to your patron, his lordship.”

  “I . . .” He looked over his shoulder at the other scholars. He rallied; she could see it in the way he drew back his shoulders. “I have news from his lordship that can only be shared with you—in private.”

  “Have you any proof of that? You cannot think me so gullible that I believe you—a stranger—simply on your word.”

  He stood for a moment, thinking. She watched his thoughts in the quick movements of his eyes.

  “His lordship wishes to convey his regrets for the current situation.”

  “If his lordship has regrets, he should convey them himself.” She raised her chin and turned to go. She could not keep up the pretense for long, but she enjoyed baiting him.

  “Damn it, Olivia,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “I’m trying to do just that.”

  She turned to face him, making sure to keep her face impassive. She focused on his face, tracing the planes of his cheeks, the line of his jaw, then she let her eyes move downward, across the breadth of his shoulders, the narrowness of his hips, the length of his legs. Her eyes raked his body with calculated disinterest. When her eyes met his again, she was pleased to see a spark of desire. “I do not know you, sir. And yo
ur position as a scholar does not include the privilege of my name.” Then, as if she had never lain awake at night wondering if he were dead or alive, she stared at him, impassive, waiting—the way a parent, a priest, or a judge would wait for a confession.

  The expression on his face hovered somewhere between surprise and regret. Out of a slit pocket in his waistcoat he pulled a smooth, flat stone and held it out in his palm. Brown, with luminous stripes of gold and black, the tiger’s-eye had belonged to her father. Longing wrenched the inside of her belly, and she reached out to take the stone, but pulled back, refusing the emotion.

  Steeling her face to reveal nothing, she looked up into his eyes, a bottomless blue. “Follow me.” She left him, to follow or not, as he chose.

  As he followed her silently to the front of the house, she quickly considered what she would need to do to manage Harrison’s investigation and his presence at the estate. She had imagined a dozen ways they might meet again. In none of them did he sneak into the house pretending to be a scholar, then announce that he intended to unmask her as a traitor.

  Strangely, the situation offered its consolations. She now knew Harrison had found Cerberus’s list. It was clear he hadn’t recognized her as the actress or he wouldn’t have asked the scholars for help so openly. If he had brought the document with him to the estate, she might find a way to retrieve it. And having him on the estate while he was making his investigation meant that she could intervene if he got too close to the truth. It was an odd situation, a series of unlucky coincidences that had led him home, but not to her.

  But she’d never expected her secret investigations for Mentor to lead her husband back to her door. Since the wild success of her novel, she’d expected him to arrive sooner or later. No earl with a rising career in Parliament wants the scandal of having a novelist for a wife. She imagined the scene a dozen times: He would arrive in his best carriage, storm into the library, throw a volume of her book on the desk, and demand an explanation. She might be of no value to him, but he would not allow a blot on the family name. And eventually, she knew, someone would let slip that that Lady Walgrave was the author of The Deserted Wife. She might do it herself if Harrison got too close to An Honest Gentleman.